Jessie
prologue
A street in London - late October 1814
If she could only have found Lady Miranda. Lady Miranda Barbour she was now, but she had been Lady Miranda Montvale when Jessie had met her. Tall, red haired and beautiful, Lady Miranda had a way about her, a shy but appealing humour and grace that put Jessie immediately at ease.
It hadn’t been hard to open up and reveal her situation once they started talking, thought Jessie. Miranda had immediately understood and offered funds. Jessie had refused, of course. But she had not refused the suggestion of work as a governess with a friend’s family, and for a while everything had been settled, if not wonderful.
Then things changed with a marriage and a death, and suddenly a governess was no longer needed. Thing like this often happened, and Jessie had hoped to move to another similar position, but this time there had been little interest.
And her life had steadily gone downhill from then on. Until here she was, lost, alone and icy cold.
It was raining. Not just ordinary rain, but brutal, pounding, soaking rain. It rained as if the skies had just been given a death sentence and were sobbing out their agony.
For the woman making her way down the flooded alley, the rain was just another burden pounding on her shoulders. Even when a passing carriage added a wave of water to her already sodden clothing, she ignored it, barely wincing at the cold seeping through her skirts.
She clutched a modest bundle beneath her arm, doing her best to protect it with her body and the thin cloak, but knowing that walking through a deluge like this one had probably sealed the fate of the contents.
Which were, she reflected, her entire worldly goods.
At the end of the alley was a small corner shop, and outside was a bench, sheltered a little by an overhanging roofline. It was toward this sanctuary that she was making her way, although God knew she certainly wouldn’t dry off at all.
It was a well-known spot for those seeking employment, since the window held notices of possible jobs and she hoped to find something there that would suit. Nobody needed one more than she did.
She had given up hope of finding Miranda. She and her husband had left London and nobody seemed too clear about their destination. Apparently they both had a bit of a wanderlust.
A shiver racked her, and she clenched her teeth, wondering if she was about to contract the ague. If so, then perhaps she could conveniently manage to pass away on that bench.
At least it would put an end to this misery she currently experienced.
Turning the corner, the young woman squelched to the bare wooden planks and gratefully sat, caring nothing for the wet beneath her, and everything for the relief at a momentary respite. Her feet hurt, and the soaked leather of shoes that didn’t fit had pinched and probably raised blisters.
Catching her breath, she rested for a moment, too tired and cold to look at the notice board. She closed her eyes, wondering if these were her last moments.
If this was where Jessie Nightingale would meet her Maker.
“Excuse me, Miss…”
She froze. That did not sound like the voice of God, or one of his holy messengers.
“Miss, are you all right?”
She opened her eyes to see a smart pair of boots. Raising her gaze, she observed equally smart breeches, then a thick, many-layered cape wrapped around a man staring down at her. He tipped his head to one side, ignoring the trickle of rain that cascaded down over his shoulder. “Are you well? You seem…lost…”
She wanted to laugh, but wasn’t sure if she remembered how. “Thank you, sir,” she managed. “I am resting for a moment. Until the rain might ease.” She nodded politely, hoping he would forgive her for not rising and curtseying. She just didn’t have the energy.
Apparently her social oversight was unimportant. “I’d be happy to offer you a lift to wherever you might be headed,” he said gently. “My carriage is to meet me here in a few moments.”
She blinked away the raindrops and looked at his face. He was an older gentleman, with a kindly demeanour, his eyebrows white, his eyes a soft brown.
“I have a granddaughter, you know. I’d be quite upset if she were to find herself alone and soaked on a corner…” He extended his hand, slowly, as if afraid to scare her. “Truly I mean you no harm.”
She looked at his fingers, his nails clean and short, the one small signet ring gracing his little finger. His skin was ageing, she noticed, in keeping with his declared status of grandfather.
Out of nowhere in particular, Jessie asked the first question that popped into her head. “How old is your granddaughter?”
He smiled. “She is about to turn fifteen. Every bit as beautiful as her mother, my daughter. And every bit as headstrong. Her Papa is going to have his hands full this season when she makes her debut.”
He was quality. She had already come to that conclusion, but his words confirmed her assumption. “You must be very proud.”
He nodded. “I’d be even more proud if I could persuade you to accept my offer of a ride. Look, here’s my carriage. I was due to meet a friend at the tearoom in Barnsley’s hotel, but sadly he is not up to snuff today. Why not join me there and save me from a lonely cup of tea?”
“I…” She glanced down at herself. “You are kind, sir, but I fear I would not be too welcome anywhere in my current condition.”
He smiled. “You do seem to have soaked up half the Thames,” he observed. “But I’m sure that can be corrected. And come now, wouldn’t a warm drink and perhaps a scone or two be a delightful respite from your journey?”
Jessie met his gaze. “It would, of course, sir. But you should know…my journey only has one destination. I am, for all intents and purposes, on the road to Hell.”
He considered her words for a few moments. “Well, in that case, I think we ought to add a shot of brandy to your tea, don’t you?”
